


The Maze of Your Ingenuity

by irisbleufic



Series: Configured Stars [2]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Actually Second Time But Might As Well Be Batched With First Time, Also References to the Films, Alternate Season/Series 04, Alternate Season/Series 05, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Countdown to Final Crisis, Dark Comedy, Deception, Difficult Decisions, Disability, Do not translate without permission or copy to another site/app, Established Relationship, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Fugitives, Hannibal Lecter / Thomas Harris Novel References, Hiding, Humor, Literary References & Allusions, Look At Your Life Look At Your Choices, M/M, Neurodiversity, New Relationship, Reconciliation, Reveal, Season/Series 04, Season/Series 05, Strained Friendships, Trials
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-10-22
Packaged: 2020-05-15 12:03:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19295347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: Darkness on the riverbank was raw, the wind a tumult of foreboding. They had chosen that night for the promise of an incoming storm—and with it, in great peril, their way out.Jeremiah wanted nothing so much as to ask how the aircraft’s propellers were nigh soundless at such a high speed, but he helped Bruce and Fox load their few pieces of cargo. He was the last to mount the drop-down stairs and enter, hauled bodily forward by Bruce.There was one thing left to do, an action best left until they were safely—or unsafely—aloft.“They’ll believe I killed us both,” Jeremiah said, uncapping the detonator. “This clears your name.”With a last glance out the window, Bruce took it from him. “The guilt belongs to us both.”





	1. Idea and Action

Bruce woke to bleak sunlight through parted curtains on the opposite side of the bedroom. Suddenly aware that he was alone beneath the covers, Bruce sat up with a start, staring at the empty pillow beside him.

“Jeremiah?” he gasped, aware as soon as he’d said it that there was no cause for concern.

Wearing a bathrobe that he’d pulled from the door-peg, Jeremiah stood with his back to the bed, arms wrapped around his middle. He’d been staring out the floor-to-ceiling window intently—but he turned as soon as he heard Bruce, his pale eyes wide.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Bruce asked, swallowing as he collapsed back on his elbows. “Are you all right?”

Jeremiah didn’t budge, and he didn’t say anything, either. He continued to stare at Bruce, as if he couldn’t quite comprehend the situation. He looked melancholy, like he didn’t trust what he was seeing.

“I slept like the dead,” he said softly, almost trancelike. “I woke up pressed so close to you.”

Bruce nodded, throwing back the covers. “You’re not dreaming. Just, would you come here?”

Nodding, Jeremiah approached the bed and sat down on the edge of it. He reached for Bruce’s cheek, brushing his knuckles fervently against it.

“Good morning, sunshine,” he said, voice still hushed, motionless as Bruce untied the robe.

Bruce slid his hand beneath the fabric, touching Jeremiah’s chest. “Lie back down.”

Jeremiah shed the robe awkwardly, flinching when he had to flex his injured shoulder.

“Let me see,” Bruce said, tugging Jeremiah closer. He plucked up the taped gauze and peered under. Satisfied that the bullet-graze hadn’t become infected, he smoothed it down. “Looks fine.”

Jeremiah lay rigid on his side, face half-hidden in the pillow as he somberly regarded Bruce.

“Excuse my anxiety,” he muttered, “but I’m not exactly known for being a reliable narrator.”

Leaning forward, Bruce kissed the corner of his mouth. “Does that answer your question?”

Sighing, Jeremiah took hold of Bruce’s shoulders, hauling him down as he rolled onto his back.

“Dear heart,” he whispered, cupping Bruce’s cheek this time, “you were wonderful last night.”

Bruce kissed him on the lips, his skin flushing hot when Jeremiah stiffened and clutched at him.

“I feel the same way about you,” he murmured, stroking back Jeremiah’s hair. “This is okay?”

Jeremiah sucked in his breath, chest heaving against Bruce’s. “This is almost humiliating.”

Shaking his head, Bruce ducked to press a kiss against Jeremiah’s neck. “I want you, too.”

“The city’s tearing itself to pieces,” Jeremiah reminded him. “It’ll be in ruin by sundown.”

“There’s nothing we can do about it,” Bruce said, rubbing against him. “Not right now.”

“Oh, if I didn’t love you before,” Jeremiah sighed, caressing the small of Bruce’s back.

“We’re safe here,” Bruce replied, nuzzling Jeremiah’s cheek. “Want to feel you like this.”

“Have me any way you like,” Jeremiah mumbled, licking at the hollow of Bruce’s throat.

Bruce hadn’t given much thought to what he wanted, aside from holding Jeremiah as close as he could and making sure they both got off. That probably wouldn’t take long, but he didn’t care.

“Did you like it?” Bruce breathed hotly against Jeremiah’s ear, spreading Jeremiah’s thighs, settling against him. “What we…did last night?”

Jeremiah moaned, hips jerking up to meet Bruce’s thrust. “Of course,” he panted. “ _Bruce_.”

“Good,” Bruce said, dropping his head until their cheeks touched. He circled his hips slow and taut against Jeremiah’s, breath hissing between his teeth at the feel of how wet they were.

“Should’ve kissed you sooner,” Jeremiah gasped bitterly, turning his head aside. “Should’ve—”

Setting his palm against Jeremiah’s jaw, Bruce turned Jeremiah’s face back and pressed their foreheads together. He was close enough that their every move made him ache.

“No, don’t think like that,” Bruce groaned, heat pooling in his belly. “ _Fuck_.”

Jeremiah’s eyes were luminous at close range, mesmeric. “You steal my breath.”

Bruce closed his eyes, giving over to the feel of Jeremiah’s hands splayed encouragingly against his lower back. He arched beneath the touch—lost in pleasure, crying out at the suddenness of it.

Jeremiah just held him, fingertips mapping tense constellations along Bruce’s spine. He kissed Bruce’s cheek, rubbing the back of Bruce’s neck while Bruce weathered the aftershocks.

Once he’d recovered his wits, Bruce kissed Jeremiah deeply. “What do you want me to do?”

Hazy-eyed and flushed, Jeremiah was inhumanly beautiful. His hair was endearingly mussed from the tangling of Bruce’s fingers in it, and his lips looked even brighter kiss-bitten.

“Touch me,” Jeremiah breathed, extracting Bruce’s hand from his hair, mouthing at the back. He guided it down through the slickness Bruce had left, curling Bruce’s fingers around himself.

Bruce let Jeremiah show him the pace he liked, and then took over when Jeremiah’s hand shook too badly to continue. He leaned over Jeremiah while he worked, studying the fine tracery of veins visible beneath Jeremiah’s eyelids. Kissed his closed eyes, reverent.

“I’ll use my mouth next time,” Bruce whispered, shocked at what he was willing to say, willing to _do_. “I’ll even…use it now, if you want.”

Jeremiah’s groan went straight to Bruce’s gut. Bruce kept stroking Jeremiah even once he had finished coming, thumbing messily over his slit. 

“Next…” Jeremiah heaved for breath, eyelids fluttering as Bruce released him and set a sticky, steadying hand against his belly. “Next time’s fine.”

Bruce kissed him again, and they didn’t stop until Jeremiah made a displeased sound about the mess drying on him. They had left the washcloth on the nightstand, so Bruce used it.

“I wouldn’t mind if…” He huffed against Jeremiah’s parted lips. “If you did that for me, too.”

Jeremiah set both hands on Bruce’s cheeks. “I said it last night. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do.”

Bruce’s phone vibrated on the nightstand, startling them out of their reverie. Bruce let Jeremiah kiss him slow and filthy, uninclined to prioritize the interruption. He imagined they were terrible at this by anyone else’s standards, but they were besotted and eager.

“That’s probably Alfred,” Bruce sighed at length, nuzzling Jeremiah’s neck. “I should answer.”

“Nothing lasts forever,” Jeremiah sighed, helping Bruce climb over him to make a grab for it. 

_Need to know where you are, Master B,_ read Alfred’s text. _Did you make it out?_

Settling against the pillow previously occupied by Jeremiah, Bruce replied, _No, but we’re safe_.

Meanwhile, Jeremiah was hanging off the opposite side of the bed, perusing the nearest end of the bookcase. He tugged something off the shelf with a grunt and flipped through its pages.

“These Harris novels,” he blurted, with a note of faint shock. “Are all of them signed firsts?”

“I think so?” Bruce said absently, watching the indicator that Alfred was typing. “My father was a fan. There’s a joke in one of the inscriptions about the two of them sharing a first name.”

“I read them as a teenager,” Jeremiah said, sounding distant. “All four. I remember when _Hannibal_ was released, I stayed up all night. I couldn’t believe the ending, I was…” He paused for a long time. “I was overjoyed.”

“I’ve only seen the films,” Bruce said, frowning as Alfred’s response finally appeared: _We?_

Jeremiah outright dropped the book. He swore, rolled off the bed, and spent about thirty seconds on the floor in which Bruce could hear him frantically inspecting the pages and cover before re-shelving it.

 _Yes_ , Bruce typed. _Jeremiah, too. We’re at the penthouse._ “Did I do something—”

“Wrong, _no_ ,” Jeremiah huffed, climbing back onto the bed empty-handed, “but the films did. They were perfect until that one unforgivable change.”

 _Small mercies_ , replied Alfred, curiously devoid of judgment. _Got some bad news, though._

“Change?” asked Bruce, as his stomach uneasily clenched. He let go of the phone briefly so that Jeremiah could insinuate himself beneath Bruce’s arm and sulk against Bruce’s chest. “How so?”

“After all that gorgeous footage of Florence and following Harris’s plot to the letter,” Jeremiah seethed, fussing at the covers with his toes, “what happens, well, _doesn’t_ happen. The book ending’s better.”

Bruce kissed the top of Jeremiah’s head, finding it more difficult to type. _Then what is it?_

“I hate bad adaptations,” Jeremiah lamented, clinging. “Can’t even _tell_ you how much I hate…”

“I don’t like them, either,” Bruce reassured him, resting his cheek against Jeremiah’s hair.

“They run away together,” Jeremiah said. “Lecter and Starling. They—” his hold on Bruce tightened, and his breath caught “—they escape.”

Bruce felt a pang of recognition, but he didn’t have time to parse it as he read Alfred’s response.

_Jim Gordon’s put out all but a bounty on your heads, the both of you. You are wanted men._


	2. Endless Invention

Several days passed in a haze of what Jeremiah suspected people might mean when they used the term _domestic bliss_. The part where, on the third day, he woke with a moderate fever—which had Bruce scared senseless beneath his stoic façade—wasn’t ideal.

Alfred’s and Selina’s texts from the outside world weren’t helping Bruce’s demeanor, either. Neither were the explosions and gunfire from the streets below, or the GCPD’s radio frequency, into which Jeremiah had succeeded in patching them after forty-eight hours of work.

“Your shoulder’s not infected,” Bruce said, setting aside the both the glass and digital thermometers. “It looks better than ever. I don’t understand.”

Jeremiah licked his dry lips and stared at the ceiling, catching Bruce’s hand against the sheets.

“Well, I worked nonstop on coffee, sex, and little sleep,” he said, squeezing Bruce’s restless fingers, “no matter how you begged me to stay in bed. Not my finest moments.”

Bruce gave a tense, distracted nod. He slid beneath the covers, settling close beside Jeremiah.

“High temps usually drop by evening,” he murmured, fretfully smoothing Jeremiah’s hair.

Catching Bruce’s hand, Jeremiah kissed the heart of his palm. “It’s only been…what, eight or ten hours? Aren’t the first twenty-four the worst?”

“You must be starving,” Bruce replied gravely. “You slept when you should’ve eaten.”

“So, I needed the rest,” said Jeremiah, with dismissive reassurance. “You’re spoiling me.” He nodded toward the perilous radio setup on the kitchen trolley. “You brought it in?”

Bruce nodded, pressing his cool cheek against Jeremiah’s. “Didn’t want to leave you alone.”

“Have there been any…transmissions of interest?” Jeremiah asked, closing his heavy eyelids.

“More of the same,” Bruce sighed. “Jim arguing with his military contacts on the mainland. Neither state, nor federal government will permit intervention.”

“They’ll let Gotham go to the dogs,” Jeremiah said grimly. “Disappointed, but not surprised.”

Bruce lifted his head, propping it on his arm as he studied Jeremiah’s face with fierce intent.

“Did Ra’s propose any kind of plan, I mean…back when this was still a desirable outcome?”

Jeremiah shook his head against the pillows, cheeks burning with shame as much as fever.

“No, and his threat was loaded enough that I couldn’t think of anything but finding you.”

Leaning forward, Bruce pressed a chaste kiss to the corner of Jeremiah’s mouth. “I see.”

“I _was_ convinced you’d see sense and comply, but that was before you snapped me out of…” He frowned, meeting Bruce’s candid gaze. “I might be ill because of _that_.”

“Because of the toxin,” Bruce gasped. “I’ve been so worried about your injury that I didn’t…”

“I already know my judgment clouds beyond all reason when I’m emotionally destabilized,” Jeremiah said with distaste. “That I’m…sensitive in ways I wasn’t before.”

“We need to keep a catalogue of known effects,” Bruce said, raising his voice to compete with the radio’s sudden flare of static. “I don’t want you to suffer more than you already have.”

“I wouldn’t call the sensitivity part _suffering_ ,” Jeremiah reminded him with amusement.

Bruce shrugged, actually cracking a smile. “You might if I decide to try pushing our limits.”

Jeremiah rolled his eyes. They didn’t even know their limits, not when the most they’d done was kiss and touch and move against each other until shared bliss stole their breath.

“I’m tired,” he murmured against Bruce’s parted lips. “I’ll stay beside you all night. Promise.”

Bruce kissed him deeply this time, bafflingly unconcerned with the risk of possible contagion.

“Had a thought about tomorrow,” he said softly. “We should—no, I should go on a supply run.”

“And use that master key of yours to raid the absent neighbors’ cupboards?” Jeremiah ventured.

Nodding, Bruce rolled to turn off the bedside lamp. “We don’t know how long we’ll be cut off.”

“Can you sleep with that?” Jeremiah asked, nodding at the radio’s blinking pinpoints of light.

“You already know I’m a light sleeper,” Bruce said, tugging Jeremiah close. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Everything about you matters to me, Bruce,” Jeremiah yawned, finding his eyelids too heavy.

The next morning, Jeremiah’s temperature was only a degree above normal. He ate without protest when Bruce brought bowls of porridge with jam stirred in, although he had to wonder if that endearingly British habit could be blamed on Alfred as much as the jar of Branston Pickle in the penthouse fridge. They dressed and took to the empty, echoing halls, firearms at the ready.

Jeremiah felt good to be fighting, or at least ready to fight, with Bruce at his side again.

“We need to take perishables first,” Bruce said. “Anything left in fridges that hasn’t gone off.”

“Clothing in my size,” Jeremiah said with distaste, “seeing as you have entire closets in yours.”

Bruce gave him an apologetic look. “Some of Alfred’s things in the spare room have fit you.”

“I’d like to face the apocalypse in more than just underwear, thanks,” Jeremiah said blandly.

They kept their first expedition to an hour and a half, nervous about leaving the radio unattended, unheard. Jeremiah ended up with an armful of shirts, two pairs of trousers, and a shopping bag full of ties. Bruce carried their respectable consumables haul: milk, a bag of baby carrots, two wilting heads of broccoli, several partial loaves of bread, half a carton of eggs, and a precious brick of ten-year-aged cheddar.

The wine selection was tempting, but Bruce insisted they wait until the next day’s run. He set his bags down long enough to press the back of his hand to Jeremiah’s cheek, frowning severely.

Irritable at being put back on bed-rest, Jeremiah was petulant about the things Bruce suggested he could make them for dinner. Finally, when they reached an impasse, Bruce insisted Jeremiah would eat whatever he damn well gave him, and walked out.

Toasted cheese with Branston Pickle _wasn’t_ half-bad, but the side of broccoli with Bruce’s attempt at lemon-garlic butter was awful. Even Bruce, after several bites, didn’t finish it.

Instead of telling him as much, Jeremiah put their plates aside on the lower tier of the kitchen-trolley-turned-radio-transport and climbed back into bed. He pinned Bruce to the headboard with a kiss, still hungry, winding his fingers in Bruce’s hair.

“I should give credit where credit’s due,” Jeremiah panted, grinding down against Bruce when he spread his legs wide enough for Jeremiah to settle.  “He knew what he was doing when he forced us together.  Knew it wasn’t really the gas that would drive me mad.”

Bruce trembled as Jeremiah drew back from the kiss, chasing Jeremiah’s lips with a frown.  “You mean Jerome?” 

“Pains me to admit it, but yes,” Jeremiah admitted, unbuttoning Bruce’s shirt. “He still knew me well enough.”

“Knew _I’d_ drive you mad?” Bruce said, unknotting Jeremiah’s tie. “Joke’s on him.  We keep each other sane.”

They were naked in no time, and the sounds Bruce made when Jeremiah licked and kissed his cock were addictive. He didn’t even get as far as sucking Bruce in earnest, pressing his cheek worshipfully against Bruce’s hip while Bruce’s come, fever-hot, hit his skin.

Once he’d gotten over the embarrassment, reassured by Jeremiah’s scandalously messy kisses up his chest, Bruce flipped Jeremiah on his back. He took Jeremiah’s erection in both hands, stroking him with such loving intent that Jeremiah didn’t _care_ if Bruce used his mouth.

“Bruce,” Jeremiah whispered, clutching at the sheets, thighs trembling, “your _hands_.”

Bruce glanced up anxiously, halting his fingers’ methodical exploration. “What’s wrong?”

“Nobody…” Jeremiah cleared his throat, staring at the ceiling. “Nobody’s ever touched me.”

“I have,” Bruce reminded him, only half joking, resuming his gentle strokes, “for days now.”

“Before _you_ ,” Jeremiah clarified, his voice breaking as Bruce finally lowered his head.

Bruce lapped the tip of him, tongue soft and patient—more than tasting, but still a coy tease.

Jeremiah closed his eyes, clenching his fists tighter in the covers. “This won’t…end well.”

“What,” Bruce asked, punctuating his words with another lick, “you mean you might come?”

Mortified, Jeremiah didn’t know how to convey the sentiment without sounding crass. “In…”

Nodding as if that was fine by him, Bruce sucked the head of Jeremiah’s cock into his mouth.

“Dear heart,” Jeremiah begged, lifting one shaking hand from the sheets to cradle the back of Bruce’s head. “Don’t stop, don’t, _please_.”

Bruce nodded again, letting Jeremiah’s cock slip from his mouth so he could kiss Jeremiah’s hip.

Jeremiah groaned, delirious with frustration. “Not the best at following instructions, are you?”

“You didn’t tell me what not to stop,” Bruce replied, just nuzzling and breathing on him now.

“Don’t stop…” Jeremiah closed his eyes again, flushing hot all over. “Don’t stop sucking me.”

“Why didn’t you say so?” Bruce asked, eagerly guiding Jeremiah’s cock back into his mouth.

The radio’s static resolved itself into words not long after Jeremiah finished, washing ominously over them as they lay sticky and breathless. Bruce’s arms tightened around Jeremiah by degrees.

By the time the exchange between Jim Gordon and an unnamed military official had ended, they were staring at each other in subdued shock.

“Call me crazy, _but_...” Jeremiah paused, afraid to even summarize. “Did they really just say…”

“They’re going to mine the river,” Bruce confirmed. “I don’t think we can reach the Manor now.”


	3. Knowledge of Words

“Are we sure we want to do this?” Bruce asked Jeremiah late the next morning, snapping from drowsy to wakeful as Jeremiah plotted.

“You heard the transmission last night,” Jeremiah said, tousling Bruce’s hair. “We have until early evening. As long as we can find a boat.”

“Docklands, fishing wharfs…” Bruce snagged his phone off the nightstand; he frowned at the flurry of frantic messages from Alfred.

Jeremiah curled closer against Bruce’s side, reading over Bruce’s shoulder as he scrolled.

“No evacuation exceptions, not even for you? Several charter planes already shot down?”

“And that’s by people in Gotham, _not_ by the military,” Bruce said grimly. “Penguin.”

“I might have attempted to talk Ra’s out of the bridge plot,” Jeremiah said, “had I known the precise level of savagery we’d be dealing with.”

“We need to reach the Manor before evening,” Bruce replied. “We’ll have enough supplies to ride this out, however long it takes. We can raid the other residences if necessary. Most of them will have evacuated during the time-frame you gave.”

Jeremiah rolled away from Bruce, hunched beneath the covers in a fit of something like guilt.

“Don’t,” Bruce said, dropping his phone back on the nightstand, scooting after him. “Please.”

“I don’t understand how you don’t blame me,” Jeremiah said dully. “Why you don’t kill me.”

Bruce closed his eyes, resting his cheek against Jeremiah’s shoulder. “Because I can’t lose you.”

“Why is that?” Jeremiah asked, voice thick with misery. “In your life, everything’s replaceable.”

Rubbing his cheek against the spot where he was resting, Bruce bit his lip in sheer trepidation.

“Because you said you loved me last night,” he sighed, “and you must know it goes both ways.”

Jeremiah nodded reluctantly. “Still feels like…some kind of dream, something I don’t…”

“Deserve?” Bruce supplied, embracing him tightly. “After the things I’ve done, do I?”

“Most ordinary people would say you deserve hell, and that life with me is just that.”

Bruce sighed, closing his eyes. “If we’re stuck in hell, then at least we’re together.”

Jeremiah rolled over, jostling Bruce, and pulled Bruce back into his arms. “ _Shhh_.”

“We can’t afford this,” Bruce said, clinging to him. “We need to eat, pack, and leave before the military takes action. We need to make the crossing.”

“Blowing the bridges between here and the Palisades made an island within an island,” Jeremiah said. “Your question about prophecy aside, it’s worth asking whether they’ll mine those stretches, too, or let them go because they fall behind lines making the mainland accessible.”

“We should make the crossing before nightfall anyway,” Bruce replied. “I hope we can find a boat with a motor.”

“I was on the St. Ignatius rowing team,” Jeremiah offered. “It would be slow, but I could—”

“Less slow if I help,” Bruce insisted. “I’ve done some rowing on the lake in Switzerland.”

“Switzerland?” Jeremiah echoed, as if he couldn’t figure out what it had to do with anything.

“My family has a chalet there,” Bruce said, rubbing Jeremiah’s back. “It’s on Reschensee.”

“As in Lake Reschen,” Jeremiah ventured, “where there’s that sunken 14th-century church…?”

“With the bell tower sticking out of the water like something out of a fairytale,” Bruce agreed.

“I’m jealous,” Jeremiah said, kissing him on the cheek before sitting up. “Let’s get moving.”

They ate, showered, dressed, and packed in slightly over an hour. When Bruce locked the penthouse door behind them, Jeremiah looked genuinely sorry to leave it behind.

“It’s only a matter of time till someone forces their way in here,” Bruce said, tugging him down the darkened corridor. “We couldn’t have stayed much longer.”

“I’ll never forget this is where you first asked me to bed,” Jeremiah replied, endearingly somber.

Even as well-armed as they were, Bruce decided that taking the Mustang as far as the Docklands was their best bet. Jeremiah didn’t question his judgment, wordlessly loading the back seat.

“Your bag looks heavy,” Bruce said once Jeremiah joined him in the front of the car. “Why?”

Jeremiah stared out his window while Bruce started the engine. “I brought the Harris books.”

Bruce sped out of the parking garage, taking the first turn at breakneck speed. “Dead weight.”

“I doubt the boat will sink, assuming we find one,” Jeremiah murmured. “Eyes on the road.”

They passed any number of sights that might have upset Bruce deeply when he was younger, from burning buildings to bodies in the streets. An armed patroller shot at them in passing.

“Will that have been one of Penguin’s?” Jeremiah asked, setting his hand on Bruce’s shoulder.

“The Sirens,” Bruce said, pulse still racing as he sped up another ten miles per hour. “This is probably their turf, given the part of town we’re in.”

“Just as well we’ll be leaving the vehicle,” Jeremiah muttered, massaging the back of Bruce’s neck. “If we were on foot, nobody would’ve cared.”

“On foot and in disguise,” Bruce amended, smashing through a road-block. “We’re both extremely recognizable, and word’s gotten out about Jim’s reward on our heads.”

“Do you always drive like this?” Jeremiah asked, sinking down a fraction in his seat.

“Only when I have to,” Bruce said, “which is more of the time than you would think.”

“Fair enough,” Jeremiah replied. “Do you think the Docklands have been claimed?”

“It hasn’t been a week yet,” Bruce said, “but it’s possible. The various factions work fast.”

They eventually parked inside a deserted warehouse and walked out the dock, shading their eyes against the midmorning sun. Their hiking backpacks weighed them down more than Bruce would’ve liked, especially given there were no boats in sight.

“We’ll have to walk until we find something,” Bruce said. “I don’t want to draw any more attention to us than we already have with the car.”

Jeremiah drew one of his firearms, tilting his head toward the next dock down. “I’m prepared.”

Bruce took Alfred’s gun from his coat pocket, following Jeremiah back the way they’d come.

Several hours later, when they found a steel fishing boat with a functioning motor tethered about five miles upstream, Jeremiah looked disappointed that rowing wouldn’t be necessary. They crossed the river in silence, watching the city skyline vanish behind them.

It was late afternoon by the time they reached the far bank. They dragged the boat ashore and hid it beneath an outcrop before continuing up the leaf-strewn slope under cover of trees.

When they passed through the clearing below Wayne Manor, Bruce pointed out the mausoleum where generations of his family were buried. Jeremiah only nodded, pensive.

They’d scarcely spoken for the arduous hour and a half it had taken to reach their destination. Inside the house, Bruce made them abandon their backpacks and led Jeremiah upstairs.

Jeremiah didn’t hesitate as Bruce led him down the hall, breath hitching as if he meant to speak.

“I want you to remember this,” Bruce said, pausing outside the double doors. “Come to bed?”

“Didn’t even have to ask,” Jeremiah whispered, following Bruce through them. “Of course.”

Lubricant was easy to come by, but patience was not. Bruce trembled against the pillows, his breath high and shallow, while Jeremiah stubbornly sank down on him.

“Does it hurt?” Bruce rasped. He stroked Jeremiah’s erection, belatedly realizing Jeremiah’s expression had gone from pained to ecstatic.

Jeremiah swallowed several sobbing breaths, trying to restrain himself, before coming all over Bruce’s belly. He eased Bruce’s hand off his cock.

“Hold me,” Jeremiah gasped, wrapping his arms around Bruce’s shoulders. “Don’t stop.”

Bruce felt the heat in his gut flare as Jeremiah clenched around him, ashamed his thrusts were so erratic. He wrapped his arms around Jeremiah and curled his toes into the duvet, realizing that Jeremiah’s cock still strained between their bellies.

“Are you going to come again?” Bruce asked shakily. He clutched at Jeremiah’s back, frantic.

Jeremiah nodded, eyes shut, writhing in Bruce’s lap. “Bruce, it feels so good, _you_ feel…”

Bruce cried out in shock, coming before he even realized what had tipped him over.

“Oh, _Bruce_ ,” Jeremiah groaned raggedly, each of his dry spasms shaking them both.

They didn’t recover quickly, or even pull apart when Bruce’s softening cock finally slipped free of Jeremiah. Bruce slumped against the pile of pillows and tugged Jeremiah with him.

“I love you,” he said, pressing his damp cheek against Jeremiah’s jaw. “Jeremiah, this—”

Jeremiah cut him off with a lazy, disoriented kiss, wincing contently as they settled down.

“Don’t let the endorphins speak for you, dear heart,” Jeremiah said, his joke wry and fond.

“So what if I’m emotional,” Bruce sighed, punctuating his words with a kiss. “It’s still true.”

Jeremiah nodded, silence too loaded for his diffidence to be on account of post-orgasm fog.

“You can tell me what you’re thinking,” Bruce said, nuzzling closer. “I’d rather you did.”

“I was wondering if your parents would’ve given their blessing,” Jeremiah admitted quietly.

“We know my father was fond of you and your work,” Bruce said. “That’s more than enough.”


	4. Knowledge of Motion

They slept late and made love again, only the reverse of what they’d done the night before. 

Jeremiah was startled at how vulnerable Bruce seemed in the aftermath. He stroked Bruce’s hair and kissed his damp cheeks.

“If I hurt you,” Jeremiah suggested, attempting to sound glib, “you should hurt me right back.”

Bruce shook his head, tucking his chin over Jeremiah’s shoulder. “I already hurt you last night.”

“I didn’t _mind_ ,” Jeremiah said. He nuzzled Bruce’s neck. “We don’t have to do it like this. You can take me from now on.”

Shaking his head again, Bruce wrapped his arms tighter around Jeremiah. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Shower with me, and I’ll suck you off,” Jeremiah murmured, hugging him tightly in return.

Bruce was easy to coax out of bed and lead to the opulent bathroom. Under the hot, perfect pressure of running water, he kissed Jeremiah with fragile-seeming desperation, clutching at Jeremiah’s shoulders.

“Please,” he gasped, hips jerking against the pressure of Jeremiah’s thigh between his legs.

Jeremiah kissed Bruce’s jaw, and then nipped his neck. He nuzzled down Bruce’s chest, lapping water droplets from Bruce’s belly before taking Bruce’s cock in his mouth. He sucked feverishly, pressing Bruce’s hips back against the tile wall.

Bruce ran his fingers through Jeremiah’s hair for half a minute before coming with a sob.

Once they were clean and wrapped in bathrobes, Bruce insisted that they haul the backpacks upstairs and put away what they’d brought from the penthouse. He watched Jeremiah stack the Harris books on the bedside table, his expression somber.

“I can’t remember the last time those were here,” Bruce said, “or if he read them again before…”

Jeremiah left the books and went to Bruce, sliding his arms around Bruce’s trembling frame.

“ _Shhh_ , dear heart. I won’t touch them again if it upsets you. We’ll shut them away.”

Bruce shook his head, but he wound his fingers in the back of Jeremiah’s robe. “It’s stupid.”

Paradoxically, Jeremiah found thinking of Jerome nearly as painful as thinking of his mother.

“It isn’t,” he said tersely, clinging right back. “I lost my family, too, all except…well, you.”

Nodding this time, Bruce exhaled slowly. “It’s possible I’ve even lost Alfred and Selina, so…”

Jeremiah ignored the bitter flip of his stomach, kissing Bruce’s hair. “How about breakfast?”

After they ate Pop-Tarts from the pantry and had coffee, Bruce dismissed the idea of getting dressed and took Jeremiah on a tour of the house. Insistently, he held Jeremiah’s hand. 

Jeremiah had seen the blueprints during his meetings with Thomas, but nothing had prepared him for the sheer scale. From the wine cellar to the upper floors, it took nearly two hours.

“What’s wrong?” Bruce asked, startling Jeremiah, who’d been surveying the courtyard from his vantage-point at the library window. “You’re quiet.”

“I wasn’t adopted by a rich family,” Jeremiah confessed. “Jerome was making assumptions.”

Bruce shrugged, joining him at the window. “I figured you’d tell me when you were ready.”

“My uncle took me to St. Ignatius. My scholarship covered tuition, room, and board. Unlike Jerome, I knew who our father was. I liked being home-schooled on the road by Cicero, _but_ …” Jeremiah paused, staring at his pale hands against the windowsill. “They told me I couldn’t go home on holidays. As if I’d find that a hardship. I stayed with schoolmates’ families during semester breaks. Nobody wanted to keep me.”

Setting one of his hands over Jeremiah’s, Bruce brushed the skin of Jeremiah’s wrist. “I do.”

“Yes, but if things ever go back to normal—” Jeremiah hesitated “—I doubt they’ll let you.”

“Who?” Bruce asked, as if the statement didn’t compute at first. “Oh. Alfred and Selina?”

Jeremiah nodded grimly, feeling the bitterness rise from his belly to his chest. “Who else?”

“They can’t hold what you did against you forever,” Bruce said. “They’ve always forgiven me.”

“What could there be to forgive?” Jeremiah muttered. “You can’t convince me you’ve ever—”

“I helped Selina kill a friend of Alfred’s. I’m responsible for several deaths, and I…” Bruce set his jaw. “Wouldn’t have done anything different.”

“I’m sure Bruce Wayne doesn’t do anything without probable cause,” Jeremiah countered.

“Including decide to take up with Jeremiah Valeska,” Bruce said impatiently, “so let it rest.”

Jeremiah rounded on him incredulously. “Do you have any idea what I was prepared to do?”

“Besides the bridges, which happened anyway?” Bruce demanded. “Do I look like I care?”

Overwhelmed with dismay, Jeremiah took Bruce’s face in his hands and kissed him roughly.

“I admitted to putting Alfred’s life in danger, and with _her_ present, no less. Why not?”

“Because if you’d killed him, I would’ve deserved it!” Bruce seethed. “I failed to keep Jerome alive! I took him from you! I failed you _both_!”

“It’s possible that I would have killed him myself,” Jeremiah sighed, stroking Bruce’s cheeks.

“Oh,” said Bruce, with something like relief. “Then you would’ve forgiven me if I’d done it?”

“What, _killed_ him?” Jeremiah asked, touched. “You would have done that for me?”

“I would’ve done it for more than just…” Bruce sighed. “Once, I even said I should have.”

Bruce’s phone rang, startling both of them. Frowning, he answered and put it on speaker.

“I was wondering if you’d even pick up,” Jim said, sounding like he hadn’t slept in days.

Jeremiah had some scathing things to say about Jim’s hypocrisy and lacking leadership, but he bit his tongue as Bruce took his hand and led him over to one of the leather sofas. He was still making an unhappy face at the phone, as if he didn’t know what to say.

“Actually, I’m taking it as a good sign that you called,” Bruce said once they’d settled. “It means you might be willing to hear our side of the story.”

Jim’s silence on the line felt icy beneath the static. “So Jeremiah Valeska’s really with you?”

“Why would Alfred lie about that?” Bruce asked, setting his free hand on Jeremiah’s knee.

Jeremiah covered Bruce’s hand with his own, squeezing it. His fury was simmering and sudden, nowhere close to abating. He stared at the seconds ticking away on Bruce’s phone screen.

“I guess he wouldn’t,” Jim said, “but I was hoping there might be a chance you would’ve—”

“What?” Bruce interrupted, his anger so incandescent it eclipsed Jeremiah’s. “Killed him?”

“Yeah,” Jim admitted, sighing like Bruce had added to the weight of the world on his shoulders.

“What will it take to convince you that we tried to foil Ra’s al Ghul’s plot?” Bruce asked. “My word used to be enough.”

Staring at Bruce’s fingers entwined with his, Jeremiah felt the dull throb of guilt in his stomach.

“Someone who can contradict what every other witness said,” Jim replied, “which… _really_?”

“Really,” Bruce said without hesitation, anticipating Jim’s meaning well before Jeremiah could.

“For how long?” Jim pressed, tone shifting from weary to pained. “Were you going to tell me?”

Bruce turned his head, staring at Jeremiah with bitter helplessness. He knew he was losing.

“Last I checked, Captain,” Jeremiah cut in, “romantic involvement wasn’t police business.”

“It is if there’s criminal collusion between parties in the relationship, Mr. Valeska,” Jim said.

“And if we’re wasting our breath telling the truth,” Bruce snapped, “this conversation’s over.”

Jim’s silence was punctuated with the sound of him fiddling with a pen in the background.

“What happened to you, Bruce? Did he get to you somehow, just like Jerome got to—”

“There’s _nothing_ ,” Jeremiah said coldly, “like Jerome about my intentions toward—”

“That’s enough!” Bruce said, sounding angry enough to make Jeremiah question, just for a moment, exactly where it was directed. “If you don’t believe me when I tell you…” He shook his head. “I’m vouching for Jeremiah regardless the cost.”

“I’m not shocked. Cost isn’t something you’ve ever needed to worry about,” said Jim, and hung up.

Bruce threw his phone on the floor so hard it bounced. He twisted sideways into Jeremiah’s arms, face pressed into the crook of Jeremiah’s neck.

“At least Alfred isn’t asking me to forsake you,” Bruce said tremulously. “Neither is Selina.”

Jeremiah ran his fingers through Bruce’s hair, pressing a kiss against his temple. “ _Shhh_.”

“I’m not sorry,” Bruce insisted, his hold on Jeremiah tightening by degrees. “I can’t be.”

“You could if I asked,” Jeremiah said quietly, knowing the better part of valor was to give Bruce an out. “All you’d have to do is tell Gordon—”

“That you poisoned me, just like your brother?” Bruce retorted, more in anguish than sarcasm.

“Yes,” Jeremiah said thinly, closing his eyes. “You’d have your life back. You’d be forgiven.”

Bruce drew back from where he’d been struggling not to sniffle on Jeremiah’s shoulder. He wiped his nose on the back of his hand, shaking his head, and kissed Jeremiah as roughly as Jeremiah had kissed him at the window moments before.

“No,” Bruce said, eyes glittering with resolve. “My life’s here, with you. It’s only just started.”


	5. Much to Build

The next morning, Bruce woke to the sound of his phone vibrating off the nightstand. He rolled out of bed, swore, and grabbed it off the floor. He hesitated when he saw it was Alfred.

Jeremiah made a fretful noise in his sleep, but didn’t wake up. He was flushed with low-grade fever again, some lingering effect of the insanity gas that neither of them understood.

Bruce touched Jeremiah’s shoulder before leaving the room. He grabbed his robe and rushed into the hall, answering just before his voicemail picked up. His gut clenched with guilt.

“Having a nice, relaxing holiday while the city tears itself to pieces, are we?” Alfred asked.

“There’s nothing relaxing about it,” Bruce said, which was only half a lie. “Jim called.”

Alfred sighed heavily, all the fight gone out of him. “I thought you might hear from him.”

“He doesn’t believe Jeremiah and I tried to stop Ra’s,” Bruce said, making his way purposefully down the stairs, heading for the kitchen. He could at least make himself useful.

“Hard to believe when he helped kick it off, but heat of the moment and all that,” Alfred said, not entirely happy with the truth, but accepting. “There’s no telling what the gas did to him.”

“Aside from the visible effects, he’s been running a fever,” Bruce said. “I can’t figure out why.”

“There’s the gunshot wound,” Alfred reminded Bruce. “You’re competent, but not a doctor.”

“It’s healing fine,” Bruce insisted, rummaging in the refrigerator until he found the egg carton.

“The sooner you two can get out of there, the better,” Alfred said. “I’ve been weighing options.”

“Options for what?” Bruce said, making his way to the stove with eggs and a frying pan in tow.

“Getting you out,” Alfred replied, rummaging through papers in the background. “Lucius is out there, too, you know. Not keen to stay. We’ve got some ideas.”

Bruce morosely cracked several eggs into the pan. He’d been so focused on Jeremiah he hadn’t done diligence to follow up on a crucial employee and loyal friend. “We don’t deserve to get out,” he said, watching them sizzle. “Lucius should see to himself.”

“He didn’t help engineer all those gadgets for nothing. Undetectable aircraft, d’you follow?”

Unexpectedly, Jeremiah caught Bruce around the waist, nuzzling Bruce’s unoccupied ear.

“ _Shhh_ ,” he whispered, wrenching the spatula out of Bruce’s hand. “Move.”

Reluctantly letting himself be shooed from the stove, Bruce fled to the dining table.

“Sorry,” he said, almost amused at Alfred’s knowing, impatient huff. “I was trying to cook.”

“Not much good can come of that,” Alfred chided. “If Jeremiah’s any immediate use, let him.”

Bruce sat down, watching Jeremiah blitz the cupboards for spices without letting the eggs burn.

“You would approve, I think,” he said, catching Jeremiah’s eye. “You were saying—aircraft?”

“Look at you, Bruce,” Selina said, crackling unexpectedly over the connection. “All settled down.” That meant Alfred must have put the phone on speaker. “Listen, Alfred’s had your legal team fix, like, fake passports and everything. If Fox can get you guys off the island—”

Realizing it wasn’t right to exclude Jeremiah from having a say, Bruce put his own phone on speaker and set it on the table. “Passports,” he echoed. “To go where, exactly?”

“Switzerland, I imagine?” Alfred cut in, incredulous. “Or anywhere you bloody well like.”

Jeremiah shoved the frying pan onto one of the unlit burners, whirling around at the mention.

“Mr. Pennyworth makes an excellent point,” he said, barely concealing his excitement.

“If Lucius disappears, Jim will know that means he’s smuggled us out,” Bruce said. “As cozy as he is with the military right now, they’d convince the Feds to attempt extradition.”

“That can take months,” Jeremiah said mildly, fetching plates down from the cupboard. “Years.”

Bruce drummed his fingers on the table, watching Jeremiah dish out the eggs. Outlaws that they were, Jeremiah’s fixation with that Harris novel’s ending made sudden, dizzying sense.

“You’ve been in contact with Lucius,” Bruce said cautiously. “How soon can he arrange this?”

Jeremiah set one of the plates in front of Bruce, and brought over the coffee press. When had he managed to find that, let alone dump in coffee grounds and hot water? Mugs followed.

“ _Pft_ ,” Selina said, her eye-roll almost audible. “Mr. Wizard’ll get you outta there in no time.”

“Few days would be optimistic,” Alfred admitted. “A week’s more likely. Best let me remain go-between.” He shuffled some more papers. “Are we selling this, Master Bruce?”

Staring at his plate, Bruce broke one of the yolks with his fork. “I won’t put Lucius in danger.”

“Bruce, he’s _already_ in danger,” Jeremiah replied, taking a seat beside him. “So are we.”

“See, unlikely as this sounds,” Selina interrupted, “I’m gonna agree with your boyfriend. I’d rather know you were alive somewhere with that weirdo than dead.”

“Ms. Kyle,” Jeremiah said, nearly spilling the coffee as he poured it, “what was that you just—”

“I’m pissed off at you guys, or whatever,” Selina muttered, “but not pissed enough for a funeral.”

Bruce watched Jeremiah’s expression shift through several stages of lightning-swift scheming.

“ _But_ ,” he said, taking Bruce’s free hand, bringing it to his lips, “a funeral’s the answer.”

Struggling to keep up, Bruce made an alarmed face at Jeremiah. He mouthed, _What?_

 _Trust me?_ Jeremiah implored silently, his lips still brushing the back of Bruce’s hand.

“Explain what you mean,” Bruce said, turning his hand palm-up, brushing Jeremiah’s jaw.

“If I’m not mistaken, you had at least one of my generator-core prototypes on the grounds.”

“You fucking _nutcase_ ,” Selina blurted. “Is that the only way you know how to do anything?”

Alfred’s silence was telling, but it was obvious the dire circumstances made him disinclined to protest. He went on shuffling papers, and scribbled what might’ve been his signature.

Mind alight with finality of understanding, Bruce nodded. “There’d be no coming home.”

“My home’s wherever you are,” Jeremiah insisted, “and I’m glad to have known it here.”


	6. Much to Restore

Coordinating their departure took two weeks of furtive, exacting text-exchanges between burner phones. Lucius to Alfred, Alfred to Bruce, and even Bruce to Lucius in a burst of frustrated anxiety. Jeremiah had never seen Bruce like this, so young-seeming and afraid.

By day, they worked together on the generator core until it was functional. Bruce’s long hours in Jeremiah’s workspace had paid off; he was as adept at understanding the form and function as Jeremiah could have hoped. They monitored radio Jim’s radio transmissions, pensive.

By night, they held each other with ever-increasing fervor. Jeremiah had always understood, deep down, that death had marked him from the start. Bruce, in spite of his early brush with it, clung to life, to _Jeremiah_ , more fiercely than ever. It stole Jeremiah’s breath.

In the hours of waning light they had left at Wayne Manor, Jeremiah pressed Bruce back into the pillows of his parents’ bed. Gave him everything he could think to give, everything they’d longed to do, everything they’d left unsaid. 

“We need to bring the books,” Bruce murmured, voice startling in the silence as they lay spent.

Jeremiah kissed him for it, grateful. He’d been too abashed to admit they were already packed.

“Then we should also bring something of your mother’s. Anything you can’t bear to…”

Bruce disentangled himself from Jeremiah and walked over to his mother’s vanity. His bare skin, awash in sunset through the parted curtains, begged far colder illumination. He opened the inlaid jewelry box, picked decisively through its contents, and clasped a chain around his neck.

“I already packed their wedding rings,” Bruce said, making his way back to the bed. “This was hers from before she met my father. _Just_ hers. I shouldn’t have forgotten.”

Jeremiah slid his fingers beneath the pendant, which looked silver, but its weight told a different story. There was nothing flashy about it, except that its composition was precious—white gold or platinum, at a guess. It was set with a tiny, faceted stone so dark as to seem black.

The reverse side bore a Hebrew inscription that felt well-worn as Jeremiah ran his thumb over it.

“It suits you, dear heart,” he said, pressing it to his lips before letting it fall against Bruce’s chest.

“ _Ki malachav yetzaveh lach lishmorcha bechol deracheicha_. For He will give His angels charge over you, to guard you in all your ways.”

“For travel?” Jeremiah asked, brushing Bruce’s hair, slightly too long, back from his forehead.

Bruce nodded, lowering his head to rest it against Jeremiah’s shoulder. “We don’t have long.”

They dressed in silence, turned out the lights, and closed the double French doors behind them.

Darkness on the riverbank was raw, the wind a tumult of foreboding. They had chosen that night for the promise of an incoming storm—and with it, in great peril, their way out.

Jeremiah wanted nothing so much as to ask how the aircraft’s propellers were nigh soundless at such a high speed, but he helped Bruce and Fox load their few pieces of cargo. He was the last to mount the drop-down stairs and enter, hauled bodily forward by Bruce.

There was one thing left to do, an action best left until they were safely—or unsafely—aloft. 

“They’ll believe I killed us both,” Jeremiah said, uncapping the detonator. “This clears your name.”

With a last glance out the window, Bruce took it from him. “The guilt belongs to us both.”

Before Jeremiah could snatch it back, Bruce had hit the button. The explosion far below them was deafening, leveling the entirety of Wayne Manor and most of its grounds.

“They won’t be watching the sky, that’s for sure,” Fox said from next to the pilot, in somber awe.

They made landing across the river without incident, although there was no telling whether the craft had gone unspotted. No calls from Jim rang through, not on _anyone’s_ phone, as Alfred and Selina met them on the private tarmac at Gotham International. 

Bruce was impassive as they enlisted everyone’s help in hauling their luggage into the hangar where an unmarked jet waited. Jeremiah followed his example, too tense to speak.

“We’ll visit, I suppose,” said Alfred, his stern façade failing by the minute. “Bruce, you’ve been…”

The rest of it was lost to the sudden, tearful embrace Bruce initiated without reservation.

Jeremiah glanced at Selina, who stood beside him with her arms folded, startled to realize she’d edged a fraction closer. She didn’t stop until her elbow bumped his.

“If anything happens to him? I’ll kill you for real,” Selina said wearily. “So, uh…good luck.”

“For what it’s worth,” Jeremiah said, gathering Bruce close once Selina had hugged him, too, “I have my regrets. If not for Jerome, this might have— _no_. Don’t forget.”

“Believe me, I won’t,” Alfred said, reluctantly shaking Jeremiah’s hand over Bruce’s shoulder.

“We’ll bring you back from the dead!” Selina called as Jeremiah led Bruce up the airstair into the jet. “If your jackass brother could do it once, why not you guys?”

Once they were safely inside, as the engine roared to life, Bruce flipped through a pair of passports that didn’t even bear their real names. He met Jeremiah’s gaze, red-eyed.

“We can’t count on that,” Bruce said gravely, leading him up the aisle. “We shouldn’t.”

“I’ll follow you, always,” replied Jeremiah, as the pilot announced take-off, and _did_.

At the chalet, twenty hours later, they undressed in Bruce’s room and collapsed. They slept just as long, dead to the world as Gotham now believed.

Jeremiah woke first, blinking at the floor-to-ceiling windows along one wall. He slipped out of bed, leaving Bruce with a touch to his shoulder.

Reschensee, shimmering far below them, was as tranquil as it had been in Jeremiah’s dreams

Bruce yawned and sat up, rubbing his eyes. “Tell me more about the real ending?” he asked.

“There’s no rush,” Jeremiah said, returning to him without a shred of doubt. “We’re living it.”


End file.
